Partners in Crime
by ShainaNight
Summary: John Watson is preoccupied with domestic concerns, and Sherlock Holmes needs someone to fill in for him as his assistant. Once again he seeks out Molly Hooper, but something's different this time around. Will one case change everything?
1. Chapter One: The Ghanaian Assassin

**So apparently I've been away from this site for three years. Hmm. I guess it's time to write something again! I'm going to apologize ahead of time if I can't update often; I work and am trying to turn my creativity into money currently. Please bear with me.**

**I discovered Sherlock recently thanks to the efforts of my sister and brother-in-law, and after watching all of the episodes, decided to try my hand at writing about it. Not sure when this story is set; I'm just going on my own tangent here. I'd place it somewhere between Sign of Three and His Last Vow, with alterations.**

* * *

Fog rolled through the London streets, as thick as a wool blanket. It enveloped everything, muffling the din of the evening traffic and inhibiting vision. A fat pigeon strutted across a deserted back alley, confident that he wouldn't be disturbed.

"Hurry, Molly! We're losing him!"

The pigeon took to the air in a flurry of feathers just as a dark-skinned man in a colorful African dashiki and tribal mask blundered into the alley. He was closely followed by a tall, thin man with a mop of dark curls and pale blue eyes, the coattails of his Belstaff flying out behind him like a cape. Hot on his heels was a young woman dressed in tan slacks and a paisley cardigan, her medium-length, mousy brown hair swinging in a ponytail. She was gasping for breath, but the fire in her brown eyes revealed she wasn't planning on stopping anytime soon.

"Sorry, I didn't exactly prepare for running a marathon today!" Molly Hooper said between gasps.

The corner of Sherlock Holmes' mouth curled up in amusement. He snatched up a wrench from atop a bin and hurled it with expert aim at the masked man. It hit him squarely on the back of his head, and with a groan he crumbled to the ground. When Sherlock reached the prone form, he pushed him over onto his back and ripped the mask off. The man was slipping in and out of consciousness but was otherwise unhurt. Sherlock picked up his wrist and extended the large hand towards Molly. It was covered in a fine white dust.

"Arsenic," Molly deduced.

"Mr. Ofosu here is a skilled dancer, but also a very careful murderer. He laced the Ghanaian ambassador's plate with arsenic powder between performances, and no one even noticed he was gone. This time, however, he heard our footsteps and accidentally spilled it all over his hand. Unable to remove the evidence in time, he made a break for it. He also has a pocketknife, an heirloom from his grandfather, concealed in his sleeve that—" Sherlock caught Ofosu's other wrist as it flashed towards him and twisted it, so that the sharp knife clattered on the cobblestones a second later "—he will unsuccessfully try to kill me with. In two minutes I'll tell Scotland Yard to add one more attempted murder to your list of charges, Ofosu."

As if on cue, sirens blared through the fog, and several police vehicles swung into the alley. Sherlock grinned.

"Show-off," Molly shook her head, but she couldn't help being impressed. He never ceased to amaze her.

Sherlock released Ofosu, and two policemen hauled him to his feet and snapped handcuffs on him. The Ghanaian assassin spat curses as they took him away, but Sherlock merely brushed his hands off and straightened his navy cashmere scarf. Popping his collar up against the cold night air, he headed back the way they had come.

"So how did you know about the pocketknife's history?" Molly asked. She lengthened her strides to keep up.

"It was an antique, at least fifty years old, and very valuable, the handle inlaid with mother-of-pearl. Ofosu is by no means a rich man, so how did he come by such a treasure? He could have stolen it, but only if the original owner had the same initials as him. They were etched into the handle. Now, Ofosu is the third male in his family to bear his name, so the knife probably belonged to his grandfather, the first Kofi Michael Ofosu. Why didn't he sell it to pay off some of his gambling debts instead of hiring himself out as an assassin? Because it has sentimental value; he was close to his grandfather. Ofosu additionally reasoned that the knife would serve as a spare weapon." Sherlock pulled out his mobile and quickly sent a text detailing Ofosu's offenses to Detective Inspector Lestrade. "Child's play, really."

"Oh yes, elementary." Molly rolled her eyes. "Are you going to tell John about this one?"

Sherlock cleared his throat and pretended to be interested in a patch of bricks on the nearest building. "Um, no, I don't think so. What with Mary getting closer to her due date and their move into a bigger flat—I'm sure he has far too much on his mind to care about something as trivial as the apprehension of a foreign assassin."

"You didn't tell him about the ghost ship case either."

"Well it did only take us a day to solve that one; the smugglers weren't very creative fellows. Frankly he'd find it rather dull."

"Or about the disappearance of the Queen's favorite lapdog."

"That was barely a 3. I only said yes because it was the Queen."

"Sherlock, he doesn't know I've been filling in for him again, does he?"

"Nonsense! Of course he does."

"Mary knowing doesn't count."

Sherlock stopped so suddenly that Molly almost ran into him. He fixed his gaze on hers. "How do you know that Mary knows?"

There was a time when Molly would have been sent into a fit of nervousness by that calculating gaze, but aiding him in faking his death and then running all over London solving crimes with him these past months had transformed her from skittish, awkward, and lovesick into moderately confident and comfortable with just being his friend. Needless to say she was also more difficult to manipulate whenever Sherlock required access to the morgue, but he had to admit he liked this new side of her. She made an excellent assistant. Maybe not quite on the level of Dr. John Watson, but a very close second.

"I have my ways," Molly said mysteriously. She started walking again, brushing past him. He followed.

"No you don't. She got it out of you."

"Alright, so maybe she did. But she hasn't said anything to John. She's of the opinion that it's something you need to do."

"That woman is too involved in our lives."

"Well she is the wife of your best friend. And besides, you wouldn't have it any other way."

Sherlock didn't respond, which was the same as an affirmation for him. Molly smiled. She was slowly beginning to understand his little quirks. It wasn't clear to her yet if this was a good thing or not.

"Fine. I'll talk to him about it tomorrow morning. Are you hungry? There's a Chinese place around the corner that stays open until 2am."

Molly cocked her head to the side, thinking. "I am feeling a bit peckish. You did pretty much ruin supper."

"I saved the Prime Minister from suffering the same fate as the Ghanaian ambassador. Hardly what I'd call 'ruining supper'."

"Call it whatever you like. Regardless, you're paying for whatever I order at this restaurant."

"What if I said I forgot my wallet at my flat?"

"Then I'd say you're lying. You never forget anything, and after your tussle with Ofosu, I saw you pat the pocket where you keep it to ensure that it hadn't fallen out. Don't even try to get out of this one, Mr. Consulting Detective."

"Observant, Miss Pathologist." Sherlock chuckled throatily. "I fear I may be rubbing off on you."

"I should probably be concerned."

"Most definitely."


	2. Chapter Two: Oscar Bliss

**Okay, so writing deductions out is kind of fun. Go figure.**

* * *

"So." Sherlock Holmes was generally a man of many words, mostly the ones you needed a dictionary for, and after finding out you immediately wanted to punch the stuffing out of him. But while sitting on the beige couch in his best friend's new, spacious flat, the only word he could get out consisted of two letters and had little meaning. He brushed imaginary lint off his black trousers and then pressed the palms of his hands together, touching his fingertips to his lips.

"Yes." John Watson seemed to be having the same communication issues. He was sitting directly across from Sherlock in a flowery armchair, his fingers fidgeting with the upholstery.

"It's quite a nice place. Very roomy and…all." Sherlock scanned the living room. Boxes were scattered everywhere, only halfway unpacked. The furniture was modest, consisting almost entirely of what John and Mary could find for cheap at estate sales and IKEA. Pictures leaned against the walls, waiting to be hung, and keepsakes—dust collectors, in Sherlock's opinion—lay in an unorganized heap atop the fireplace mantle. The telly was originally a stolen item, and a litter of puppies had been birthed on the edge of the area rug approximately two years previous, but Sherlock decided this wasn't the best moment to tell John.

"Oh yes, it's very nice. Good deal too. We're lucky to have it."

_Of course you are. The man who lived here before was a drug dealer and only broke the lease because he had to flee the country._ Sherlock sniffed the air again. _Mainly marijuana. Hmm._ "And how is Mary?" He asked instead of mentioning this.

"She's lovely! The baby's healthy, and everything is progressing on schedule."

Sherlock's gaze alighted on the bags underneath John's slate-blue eyes and the growing number of grays in his sandy hair. _Yes, but she's been getting an increasing amount of late-night cravings and sending you out to pick up whatever she's keen for. You haven't slept in ages, but you love her so you haven't said anything. Odd things, emotions._

"How is good old 221B?"

"Boring as usual. Mrs. Hudson had the refrigerator replaced with a smaller one so I can't store severed body parts in there anymore. I ordered a deep freezer this morning."

"I'm sure she'll be thrilled when she finds out about that." John laughed. "Have you had any interesting cases lately?"

"Nothing worth mentioning, no. The clever criminals must be on holiday." _On holiday in England, that is._

"I'm sorry I haven't been able to pop in and help. Been a bit distracted by the moving process."

"Don't worry about it, John. I've, er…I've actually had a bit of help with some of them."

"Oh? From who?"

Sherlock coughed. His palms were sweating slightly. "Molly."

"Ah. Good. Well. She's a phenomenal pathologist. I'm sure she's a rather helpful assistant."

"You don't mind?"

"What? No, no! I'm glad you've found someone else. You seem happy." John cracked a reassuring smile.

Sherlock breathed a sigh of relief. He considered telling him about the blog Molly was writing detailing the cases she'd accompanied him on, but once again made up his mind that it could wait.

The front door suddenly opened, and Mary entered the flat, her arms laden with brown paper bags. John instantly leapt up and rushed to her aid.

"I told you I'm perfectly okay with taking care of the shopping, Mary. Those bags are far too heavy," he said, taking the groceries from her.

"Just so you can get into a row with the checkout machine again? I think I can handle this one, John." Mary's blue eyes sparkled with mirth. She stretched out her back, nevertheless relieved that her burden had been removed. "So, did you two have your little talk about seeing other people—I mean, about Molly assisting?"

Sherlock glanced in the direction of the kitchen. It appeared John was out of earshot. "Just finished. He took it rather well."

"He approves of Molly. If it was anyone else he would probably be up in arms."

Sherlock spent most of the morning with John and Mary, discussing old cases, the neighbors, and the state of the country. It wasn't until after a wholesome lunch prepared by Mary that Sherlock finally said his goodbyes and headed back to Baker Street in a taxi. Mrs. Hudson met him at the door.

"How did it go?" She asked.

"Ah, so Mary has been keeping you up to date as well." Sherlock rolled his eyes and loosed his scarf. "It was fine, the Watsons are disgustingly happy with their new life, and I could do with a warm cup of tea if you don't mind."

"For the hundredth time I am not your housekeeper, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson reprimanded. "Oh by the way, there's a client waiting for you in my kitchen. I was going to let her into your flat, but the door won't open."

"New deadbolt. Not everyone you let into my flat is a saint, Mrs. Hudson."

"Mr. Carrington seemed like such a nice man."

"Until he made off with my priceless collection of Andamanese poison darts."

"I was a little disappointed when they were recovered. Nasty things to have lying around the flat."

Sherlock started up the steps. "You can send the client up as soon as you're done counting your silverware," he said over his shoulder.

* * *

The client was a woman in her mid-thirties, with short ginger hair and green eyes. She introduced herself as Joanne Davis.

"You're Cardiff born, correct? Lived there for most of your adolescence. But then you moved to America," Sherlock deduced.

The woman looked amazed. "Yes! How did you know?"

"The accent, for starters. Clearly Welsh; Cardiff was just a guess. And then there's your mobile. When you pulled it out to silence it, I saw that your carrier is Verizon, a company based in New Jersey. So you must have spent a good while in the U.S. to invest in an American service."

Joanne chuckled. "I knew you were good, but witnessing it in person is just brilliant."

A proud smile flickered over Sherlock's face. He noted that she was dressed all in black, and that she was fiddling with her wedding ring. "Does this case have anything to do with your deceased husband, Mrs. Davis?"

"Right again, Mr. Holmes. My husband, Wyatt Davis, was an investigative reporter for the Cumberland Chronicle, a newspaper in Nashville, Tennessee. Five months ago, Wyatt became suspicious that his employer and CEO of the paper, Oscar Bliss, was involved with the black market and began looking into his business affairs. Two months ago, my husband went on a solo hike and was found dead." Joanne's eyes welled up with tears. "The police said he accidentally fell off a cliff."

"But you don't think that's what really happened. You think Bliss had him killed."

Joanne nodded. "My husband loved hiking. He was always very careful, and he knew that trail like the back of his hand. There's no way he could have just walked off that cliff. I tried to tell the police that, but there's no evidence to prove otherwise, and I can't get any American private investigators interested. But then a week ago, I saw you on the news, and read both Dr. John Watson and Molly Hooper's blogs. I know it's a bit of a commute, but I figured it was worth a try. I'll pay your way; whatever it takes."

Sherlock already had his phone out and was scrolling through information regarding Oscar Bliss. The internet had quite a lot to say about the wealthy businessman, and little of it was good. His lip curled. "Save your pounds, Mrs. Davis. My assistant and I will be happy to take the case."


	3. Chapter Three: An Unusual Proposal

"Molly, I need you to marry me."

Glass shattered into a million glittering shards as the beaker Molly had been holding slipped from her hand. The blue liquid within spilled across the table, and a strong acidic smell filled the lab. Molly scurried to clean it up before turning to face Sherlock.

"I'm sorry, what?" She said.

Sherlock's expression was calm, if not slightly bemused. It was as if he thought a marriage proposal was a normal, everyday occurrence. "You heard me. We have a new case. The client is a woman named Joanne Davis, whose late husband worked for a newspaper in the States up until his questionable death two months ago. He was investigating some seedy business dealings of the newspaper's CEO, Oscar Bliss, and Mrs. Davis believes Bliss to be responsible."

"I don't see what this has to do with me marrying you."

"Shush, I was getting to that. I need to go undercover to solve this case, preferably with long-term access to the newspaper office. The best way to do that is to get a job there, but the only one available is marriage advice columnist. They require that the applicant be married in order to secure the job. Thankfully they didn't specify how recently."

Molly relaxed. She should have known that the only time Sherlock would show any romantic inclination towards at all would be for a case. Her heart had done a backflip as soon as the proposal had left his lips, but she refused to let it get the better of her. "So? Just pretend you're married. Fake wedding band and all that."

"That was my initial plan, until I learned the Cumberland Chronicle runs background checks on all applicants before even interviewing them. They'd find out I was lying in a heartbeat."

"Don't you think they'll find it odd that a detective is applying for a position giving marriage advice?"

"They'll never know. I had Mycroft fix it so that my detective work won't pop up in any background check. As far as the employer is concerned, I'm a self-employed life consultant with a degree in psychology, which is more or less true."

"Can't your brother just use his influence with the register office?"

"Unfortunately, no. He offended the Superintendent Registrar a few years ago and she still hasn't forgiven him."

"How did he manage that?"

"He refused to marry her."

"Ironic."

"Quite. But we're getting off the subject." Sherlock followed Molly to the other side of the lab, where she was putting away equipment. "You once said that you'd be there for me. Whatever I needed. And besides, it's not like this is a _real_ marriage. As soon as we get back to England, we'll simply tell them it wasn't legal somehow and get it annulled. It will be like it never happened."

Molly was going to say something snarky—perhaps that she could claim he was mentally ill as grounds for the annulment—but then she made the mistake of looking him in the eyes. She'd once thought that they were merely blue, pale as glass, but closer inspection had revealed gold threads around the pupils that made them look green on occasion. These were the eyes that looked into the minds of crooked men and brought them to their knees, the eyes that not only saw but observed every little detail and catalogued it if it was of importance. But they were also the eyes that softened when looking upon John and Mary and Mrs. Hudson, and even her from time to time. And it was these eyes that were attempting to coax her heart out of its iron-barred cage.

Molly sighed. "Alright. Fine. For the case. But annulling it is the absolute FIRST thing we do when we get back. I'd rather not be stuck spending my life with a bloke like you."

"I can't imagine why; you'd never be bored. Regardless, I'm not looking forward to this either. It isn't exactly my area."

"Yes, I know. You're married to your work."

"Indeed." Sherlock grabbed Molly's left hand and inspected it. Taken by surprise, Molly tried to ignore the tingle that traveled up her arm, reminding herself that she was over him. The sensation subsided. "You wear a size 6 ring."

It was a statement, not a question, but Molly nodded anyway. The measurements he took merely by looking were always precise. "Mind you get me something nice, so I know you put a lot of thought into it," she joked.

Sherlock's eyebrows knit together. "That's another thing I don't understand. Why do people spend so much on such a small trinket? Can't the same amount of thought be put into a more affordable ring? Why does a man have to break the bank to prove his love?"

"It's symbolic. Shows how much she's worth to him."

"Worth is circumstantial. A homeless man could place the same amount of worth on a crumpet."

"Well I'd rather not wear a crumpet on my hand, thank you very much."

Sherlock chuckled. "No, that wouldn't suit you at all. But I'm sure I'll be able to find something that does." He reached into the inside pocket of his coat, fished out a bundle of papers, and handed them to her. "These are the Notice of Intention papers that you need to fill out. Mine are already finished. We'll turn them in at Westminster City Hall, 64 Victoria Street tomorrow. I've made an appointment."

"You already made an appointment before you fake-proposed?"

"Of course! I knew you'd fake-accept. Anyway, sixteen days after we give notice, we'll return there for the ceremony. Two people from my homeless network have agreed to act as witnesses."

Molly shook her head in disbelief. "You have this whole thing figured out, don't you?"

"We haven't the time to waste; I'd like to get to America as soon as possible. See you tomorrow, _darling._" Sherlock bent down and planted a quick, friendly kiss on her cheek. The term of endearment felt unnatural on his tongue. He made a mental note to practice saying it until it no longer sounded like he was choking down bitter medicine at the same time. "Oh, and don't mention this to anyone, especially John or Mary. Or Mycroft, if he happens to come snooping around in my life again. They'll try to put a stop to it."

"Okay, _dear_." As the door to the lab shut behind Sherlock, Molly leaned back against the cabinet, wondering what she had gotten herself into.


	4. Chapter Four: A Rude Awakening

**Usually I wouldn't be updating this fast, but I really enjoy writing about Sherlock and Molly and their unusual relationship. A lot of the fics on here portray Sherlock's character just like any other man, with normal reactions and feelings, but Sherlock isn't normal. It doesn't make sense for him to immediately be gushy in a fic when it takes him ages to warm up to anyone in the series, and even longer for him to show it. It's what makes him so interesting to write about :)  
**

* * *

The sixteen days passed slowly for Molly. Sherlock was away in Ireland for most of them, solving a case for his brother that he assured her would practically solve itself and therefore didn't require her assistance. Accustomed to his constant presence, irritating though it often was, she felt like something was missing when he was gone. She divvied up her time between St. Bart's and keeping Mary from learning of the secret wedding. Whenever they talked, Mary usually asked about Sherlock's cases, and Molly had already let it slip that they would be leaving for the U.S. in a little over two weeks. Mary, who had visited America time and time again, wanted to hear every detail. So far she knew nothing about Sherlock's undercover position. As was to be expected, he'd already secured it; the other applicants had failed to complete their interviews due to sudden and significantly better job offers, so the paper had had no choice but to hire him.

The morning of the wedding, Molly awoke to find her calico, Toby, purring up a storm on her chest.

"I'm getting married today, Toby. Well, sort of," she said. The cat opened his big green eyes for a moment and regarded her with feline contempt. "Oh don't worry, I won't forget about you. It's for a case. Shouldn't last too long, and I'll be back before you know it."

"You're going to be one of those old ladies who lives in a house overflowing with cats, aren't you?"

Molly shrieked and pulled the covers up to her chin. Toby scrambled for refuge. "SHERLOCK! How'd you get in here? I'm in my nightie!"

Sherlock was leaning against the doorframe, hands in his pockets and a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. He was dressed in his usual attire—lilac shirt, black suit, black leather shoes. "The lock on your front door is embarrassingly easy to pick. I suggest you have it replaced. And honestly, that's no way to treat your fiancé. There is nothing you have that I haven't already seen in the morgue."

_Or on Irene Adler,_ Molly thought. "Aren't you sweet. Now if you don't mind, I'd like to get dressed in the privacy of my bedroom."

"Toby is still in here." A hiss answered him from under the bed.

"Cats don't count. Get OUT, Sherlock."

"Women," Sherlock said, but he complied with her wishes.

Molly waited until the sound of his footsteps faded before getting out of bed. Then she ran to the door, shut and locked it, and proceeded to dress for the day.

"Hmm. Well, at least it's not the cat-patterned cardigan," Sherlock said when she entered the kitchen in a 50s-style lilac dress. This was the closest thing to a compliment he could give.

"What exactly are you doing here, Sherlock? It's 8am. We still have two hours until the ceremony," Molly said. She hoped her hair wasn't standing straight up on her head. She'd curled it in a hurry, fearing Sherlock was snooping through every personal item in her flat while he was waiting. The state of her makeup was also doubtful.

"I got bored. Mrs. Hudson told me I'd have to pay ten pounds for every bullet hole I put in the wall, and I ran out of spackle last night."

"So you decided it would be more exciting to come over here and bother me?"

"Naturally." Sherlock pressed the brew button on the coffee maker. While it was percolating, he rifled through the fridge and pulled out a carton of eggs and a block of cheese.

"And now you're making breakfast?"

"Would you rather I shoot your wall?"

"Breakfast will be lovely, thank you." Molly sat down at the table, not wanting to have to explain bullet holes to her landlord. She pulled the newspaper towards her and flipped to the crosswords.

"The answer is 'antihistamine'."

"Sherlock! I prefer to do my own crossword puzzles."

There was a moment of silence. "Aleutian Islands, socialism, binary system, cuneiform, Georgian, Faberge, Einstein," Sherlock muttered.

Molly glared at his back. She wadded up the newspaper page and chucked it at him. It bounced off his curls and almost landed in the sizzling pan of eggs, but he caught it just in time and tossed it in the bin.

"I don't really fancy ink in my breakfast."

"Did you ever think there might be a reason you tick people off?" Molly asked after opening her Sudoku book and discovering that it was entirely filled in. She considered throwing it at him as well.

"Because people are insanely dull, and any spark of brilliance upsets their mundane existences?"

"Wrong answer." The coffee maker beeped, and Molly got up to retrieve a mug from the cabinet.

Sherlock shoveled the cheesy scrambled eggs onto two plates and added some kippers. He set one of the plates in front of Molly. It smelled heavenly, but she wasn't about to tell him that.

"Are you going to let me see this 'suitable' ring you bought for me yet?" Molly asked.

Sherlock set down his fork and dug in his pocket. He slid a gray box across the table, and she caught it and opened it. A simple stainless steel Claddagh ring was nestled on the plush cushion within. The crown atop the heart was studded with tiny flecks of onyx.

Molly was speechless for a moment. "Not many people know about the quarter of Irish in me. How did you?"

"Your mother's maiden name is Flanagan. It's not that hard to figure out."

"And how do you know her maiden name?"

Sherlock sipped his coffee and pretended he hadn't heard.

"You looked into my records, didn't you?"

"I'd like to point out that they were _public_ records. How else was I supposed to know the sort of ring you would want?"

"Oh I don't know, maybe you could have asked?"

Sherlock blinked. This seemed to be beyond his level of comprehension.

Molly sighed and gave up. She slipped the ring on, and it fit as if it was custom made for her. "It's very beautiful. Thank you."

"You're welcome. I got it from a jeweler who owed me a favor. He threw in mine as well." Sherlock showed her a plain band that was also made of stainless steel. It was a good choice for him.

Molly put her ring back in the box and returned it to Sherlock for safekeeping. When they had both finished breakfast, Molly glanced up at the clock. "9am already," she noted. Only an hour to go.

"You should finish getting ready then."

"I already did."

"Nearly. You have a streak of eyeliner running the full length of your nose."

Molly grabbed a spoon and looked at her reflection. She squeaked. "Why didn't you tell me earlier?!"

"At first I thought it might be a fashion statement." Sherlock smirked. "If it helps any, it does match your shoes."

Molly shot him a withering look and stomped off towards the bathroom.


	5. Chapter Five: Mr and Mrs Holmes

"You may now kiss the bride."

Molly felt like a deer in headlights. She'd been psyching herself up for this moment for sixteen days, but now it had arrived and she still wasn't ready. _Remember, it's just an act. He doesn't love you, and you don't love him. This means nothing._

Sherlock was leaning towards her. He was so tall, and Molly was certain it was going to take ages for him to reach her. Well, might as well get it over with. She stood on her toes, and their lips met.

It was nothing like the times he had kissed her on the cheek as an apology or gesture of friendship. This was much nicer, and she wished it could last longer, but he was already pulling away. Molly put all her willpower into slowing her pulse, looking down so he couldn't detect how the kiss had affected her from the size of her pupils. She barely heard the registrar offer his congratulations, or paid much attention to Sherlock's homeless pals shaking her hand. Fuzzily she registered a wedding photographer coming up to them and offering to take pictures. _Deep breaths. You don't need to pass out in front of these people._

"You can put that fancy camera away. This will do," Sherlock said, holding out his Blackberry. The man looked at him dubiously.

"You won't get quality photos with that, mate. This here is a brand-new Canon 5D Mk ll," he argued, tapping the huge lens.

"I wouldn't say brand-new. It's at least a year old and you bought it used from a pawn shop. The mobile, if you please."

The photographer looked surprised at first, but then he scowled. He was silent as he snapped the pictures. Ten minutes later, Sherlock thanked him and quickly ushered Molly out of the building.

It had been raining incessantly earlier that morning, but when they stepped out the front doors of Westminster City Hall, the sun decided to peak out shyly from the clouds as if wanting the first glimpse of Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. It seemed to approve.

_Oh what do you know,_ Molly thought as she squinted up at it. _It's not real. Just a piece of paper, new jewelry, and a name change. Molly Holmes. _Her heart skipped a beat at this. She'd once fantasized over owning that last name, but in her daydreams it had gone quite differently. Usually they involved Sherlock getting knocked unconscious and waking up with emotions. Like that would ever happen.

"I suppose the pictures aren't half bad, even if the photographer was a git," Sherlock said, studying his phone screen.

"He wasn't happy about you rejecting his professional work in favor of mobile phone pics," Molly pointed out.

"His 'professional work' was overpriced. Maybe if he didn't spend so much money on alcohol and gold-digging women, he wouldn't need to swindle from newly married couples. Besides, it would have taken weeks for him to mail the disk to us, and we need evidence of the wedding on our person." Sherlock hit the 'send all' button, and Molly's phone vibrated. She swiped through the pictures and was surprised to find that Sherlock was right. To the camera, they looked young and in love, if not a little nervous. It was the best acting job of Molly's life.

"John and Mary would kill us if they saw these," she said.

"Which is exactly why they aren't going to see them." Sherlock threaded his arm through Molly's and led her to a waiting taxi. "We need to get to the airport by 1:30pm to make our flight. Just a quick stop at 221b for the luggage and we'll be on our way."

By the time the taxi pulled into traffic, it had started raining again and there was no sign of the sun. Molly suspected she might have scared it off. She watched the raindrops hit the window and then spiral down, twisting her wedding ring around her finger. What would her parents think if they knew? She was their only child, and over the years they'd made it clear that they wished to see her married. Every boyfriend she'd briefly dated had disappointed them. She highly doubted that Sherlock fit their high expectations, at least not after he opened his mouth in their presence.

"You're worried."

Molly looked up with a start. Sherlock's eyes—blue at the moment—were focused on her. "Just a tiny case of nerves. I've never played the part of a wife before."

"You'll be fine. Remember the time you pretended to be a flight attendant so we could catch that hijacker?"

"It's not quite the same. There was a good deal more paperwork involved for this role. And the secrets I'm keeping also have to be hidden from the people I usually tell everything to."

"And you have to pretend to like me." Sherlock smiled wryly.

"That's the hardest bit." _Not. _"But I'll try my best."

"At least you won't have to put on a show very often. You'll need to stop by the office once and a while to see me so that your existence is well established, but the rest of the time you can gather outside information for me."

Molly was quiet for a moment. "What would your parents think if you were to actually get married?"

"They wouldn't believe me if I told them I was. They'd assume it was for a case, or some elaborate joke. My mother and father have accepted the fact that I'm far from the marrying type and will always be a bachelor. If they want grandchildren, I reckon they'll have to get them from Mycroft."

"That's not looking too promising either."

"Indeed it isn't."

They reached Baker Street more or less on schedule. The cabbie waited as they dashed inside to collect their things.

"Yoohoo!"

Sherlock and Molly stopped what they were doing and glanced at each other. They managed to get their rings off just in time before Mrs. Hudson appeared in the doorway. She put her hands on her gingham-swathed hips and surveyed the messy flat.

"Leaving so soon, dears?" She asked.

"We have to make our flight," Sherlock said simply. He grabbed a duffel bag and tossed it down the stairs without paying much heed to where it landed. There was a crash as the umbrella stand in the foyer toppled over.

"Sherlock, be careful!"

"Sorry." Sherlock heaved his suitcase down next, perhaps a little more carefully since nothing else fell over.

"Oh Molly love, you're so beautiful," Mrs. Hudson said, clasping her hands together and beaming. "Doesn't she look beautiful, Sherlock? That dress is perfect for her figure."

"She looks adequate." Sherlock shrugged. He didn't even turn around.

"Don't listen to him, dear," Mrs. Hudson whispered, patting Molly's shoulder. "That's his way of saying he thinks you look lovely. I haven't heard him criticize you in ages."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson." Molly didn't exactly agree with her, but she appreciated the landlady's compliments all the same.

Between lugging the bags to the trunk of the taxi and Mrs. Hudson plying them with food—"Might as well take this sandwich, dear; better than the fare you'll get in America, that's for certain. Who knows what they serve in that country. Have a muffin too! They don't even have teatime, if you can imagine that. All rush rush and no proper time of the day to stop and smell the roses"—Sherlock and Molly were cutting it close. They quickly gave Mrs. Hudson parting hugs.

"We might be away for several months. Don't bother with worrying. Make sure you don't forget to check on Toby. If John comes round, tell him I have no idea why his chair is occupied by a cat-embroidered pillow. Give my regards to Mary. Don't confiscate my skull again," Sherlock said as fast as he could manage. Not waiting for a response, he practically threw Molly into the backseat and signaled the cabbie. The vehicle peeled off, disappearing around the corner with a squeal of tires on wet pavement.

Mrs. Hudson waved goodbye up until the point where she could no longer see them. "What a sweet couple they'd make," she said with a sigh before heading back inside.


	6. Chapter Six: Nashville, Tennessee, USA

The flight from London to Nashville was twelve hours long and involved multiple layovers. Sherlock spent the time researching Tennessee's capital on his phone and voicing his boredom. An hour in, half of the passengers were glaring at him. Two hours later, everyone had put on headphones to drone him out. Molly, who was used to his erratic behavior whenever he had nothing to do, became engrossed in her book and said 'mhmm' whenever he asked her a question.

"Molly, you're not even listening to me!"

"What? Oh, of course I am!"

"Then what did I just say?"

"Something about the case?"

"Wrong."

"The incompetence of Scotland Yard?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth together. "Lucky guess."

"Look, Sherlock. We have nine hours of flight time left. You're going to have to occupy yourself somehow. Analyze the other passengers or something."

"I already did. The priest is from Brussels, had porridge for breakfast, and is on his way to see his secret girlfriend. Avoid the blond woman sniffling two rows back—she has a nasty sinus infection and is emotionally unstable due to a recent divorce. Shall I go on?"

"I'd rather read." Molly buried her nose in her book. Sherlock glanced at the title. It was a collection of medical notes written by an obscure but well-educated Indian surgeon. He felt a twinge of pride at this.

On the next plane, a man across the aisle suddenly caught Sherlock's attention. He was young, somewhere in his thirties, with sandy blond hair, a well-trimmed beard, and hazel eyes. He was dressed professionally in a gray suit and blue paisley tie. At first Sherlock thought he was looking at him, but then he realized the man had his eyes trained on Molly. There was an idiotic smile painted on his face. For a moment Sherlock puzzled over what was so interesting about her.

The final conclusion didn't sit well with him. What business did this man have ogling his fake wife? He wasn't even a suitable candidate for her. The slight pooch in his stomach indicated limited exercise; he probably held a desk job. The tie had a small stain on it—he wasn't very neat when he ate. He'd been too lazy to iron his shirt before heading to the airport that morning. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He scratched an imaginary itch on his cheek, making sure the wedding band flashed in the light, and closed his hand around Molly's. She jumped a little and looked up at him, confused.

"See that man in the paisley tie?" Sherlock whispered in her ear.

"Yep. Is he a criminal?"

"Worse. He fancies you."

"Really? He's kinda cute."

"Molly!"

"What? We're not _really _married, you know."

"No, but I don't need you blowing our cover."

"Married women sometimes flirt with other men. It's not out of the ordinary."

"Immediately after tying the knot? That reflects badly on me as a marriage advice columnist. Paisley over there is American; he might have connections with the Cumberland Chronicle."

"Paisley?"

"That's what I've elected to call him."

Molly rolled her eyes.

Paisley was still looking. A sudden image of an iron door with a padlock flashed in front of Sherlock's eyes. It was located somewhere in his mind palace, but he couldn't remember putting it there. The lock had scratches on it, like it had been tampered with. He resolved to figure out how it had gotten there and what its purpose was later. "Just laugh as if I said something funny."

"Key words: 'as if'," Molly replied, but she did it anyway. Paisley stopped staring, and Sherlock felt an odd sense of accomplishment.

It was pitch-black outside when Sherlock and Molly boarded their last plane. Molly was looking worse for wear—she was seriously regretting wearing a dress and full makeup on this trip—but Sherlock was as alert as ever. He'd been strangely quiet for the past several hours, which was relief for everyone involved. Little did they know he was hard at work trying to unlock a door that didn't physically exist; the door in his brain. No matter what he did, the lock held secure, and there was no way around it. At some point a flight attendant offered him peanuts, but he waved them away and went back to concentrating. He did notice that Paisley had joined them on this flight, but he was seated much further behind them this time.

When Sherlock finally exited his mind palace, it was due to the presence of a dead weight on his shoulder. He looked down and saw that Molly had fallen asleep, her head resting comfortably on the black wool of his suit jacket. Reflexively he tried to nudge her off, but she only curled a hand around his arm and snuggled closer. Her hair was an absolute mess, but her face was completely relaxed, a pleasant smile plucking at her lips. She'd seemed in a bit of a fog ever since the wedding, and Sherlock assumed she must have slept very little the night before. He allowed the continued use of his shoulder as a pillow and stared out the small window at the darkness, lost in thought.

Molly didn't stir until the plane started its descent and the announcement that they would be landing soon woke her up. She was groggy and disoriented, and it took a full minute for her to realize what she was lying on.

"Sherlock! I'm sorry, I just dozed off and…Oh dear, I got your suit all wrinkled." Molly colored. She tried to smooth out the material of his jacket.

"You drooled a bit too," Sherlock noted, drying the spot with his sleeve.

Molly's blush deepened. "Why didn't you just push me off?"

"I tried. It didn't work. I gave up." Sherlock shrugged. "Sleep well?"

Molly nodded, but she was too embarrassed to say anything else about the incident. "Where are we?"

"Coming into BNA now. It's 2 in the morning."

"No wonder I'm so tired." Molly stretched. Her hand brushed her unkempt hair, and she gasped. Quickly she ran her fingers through the frazzled strands, attempting to tame at least some of it before she pulled it into a ponytail. What she would give to have curls like Sherlock; they looked good no matter what state they were in. "How do I look?"

"Tired, and a right mess."

"Sherlock!"

"It's the truth. But so does everyone else, so I don't see why it concerns you."

"You wouldn't understand. You could care less what everyone thinks of you."

Sherlock grinned. "Neither should you."

As soon as they got off the plane, Sherlock and Molly went to collect their luggage. Paisley crossed their path on their way out, and Sherlock put an arm around Molly's waist for good measure. It was just as well; there was a chance she might collapse in a slumbering heap at any second.

The weather in Nashville was chilly, but only because of the early hour and not at all comparable England. It was the end of summer, and in the day the temperature would hover around 32 degrees Celsius, or rather 90 degrees Fahrenheit now that they were in America. At the moment the night air was refreshing, and Sherlock took a deep breath of it before leading Molly to the metallic-gray Ford Flex that he'd paid a good sum to rent for their lengthy stay in the city.

"Other side," Sherlock said as she started for the door on the left.

"Crazy Americans." Molly changed direction and got into the passenger's seat on the right side.

Sherlock finished stuffing the last bag in the trunk and jumped into the driver's seat. He adjusted the temperature inside the vehicle, slipped a cd of classical violin—his own composition, of course—into the stereo, and drove away from the airport. He merged onto Interstate 40 West and then took a ramp to 65 South, pleased that there were few cars to slow him down.

"There's the skyline, Molly."

Molly jerked awake. The leather seat was far too comfortable and Sherlock's music incredibly calming, but as soon as she saw Nashville for the first time, she sat up straighter. Although this city was a great deal smaller than London, it pulsed with a new energy that she couldn't wait to experience. Sherlock had informed her that the oldest buildings dated only as far back as the 1800s. There were a lot of newer ones as well, scraping the sky and blazing with electric lights. The tallest structure rose in two points, like ears. A sign just under these ears bore the logo of the telecommunications company AT&T.

"New façade, but you'll find that Nashville is teeming with the usual sort of criminals. Transportation is a little spotty; there isn't a tube and taxis aren't commonly used. They have buses, but I'd rather avoid those at all costs," Sherlock said. "I've arranged for us to stay at the Union Station Hotel indefinitely. Called in another favor."

"Convenient," Molly muttered. She was rather impressed with the hotel, however. Once a functioning train station built in 1900, it was a magnificent stone structure in the heart of Downtown. The front door led into a great room with a high arched ceiling set with stained glass, and intricate sculptures adorned the walls. Laden with luggage, Molly stood there taking it all in while waiting for Sherlock to collect their room keys from the man who owed him yet another favor. A porter came to load their bags on a cart.

Molly dropped what she was carrying and almost fell forward, her fatigue returning. Sherlock appeared next to her and grabbed her arm to steady her. "Just an elevator ride to the third floor, and I promise you can pass out then," he told her.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, you really know how to treat a girl on her wedding night—er, morning." Molly giggled. The lack of sleep was starting to get to her.

"Fake wedding night," Sherlock corrected.

"Whatever you say."

Once they walked into their room, Molly sobered up a little. There was only one bed.

"Didn't you tell your friend that you needed a room with two beds?" She asked.

"Yes I did. It appears he stopped listening immediately after hearing I was bringing a wife along."

"Can't he fix it?"

"Perhaps, but not tonight. I'll speak with him about it when I get the chance." Sherlock unbuttoned his suit jacket and threw it over the back of a chair. "In the meantime, you can sleep on the sofa."

"Excuse me? I did not just fly across the Atlantic and drag myself into this hotel to sleep on an uncomfortable sofa. If anyone gets the sofa, it's you."

"It's merely a matter of height, Molly. I'm too tall for it. And it looks like it has some padding."

Molly was going to argue, but at this point she just didn't have the strength for it. Instead, she launched onto the bed and burrowed under the covers. "Mine," she stated simply. A moment later she was fast asleep, wrinkled dress, smudged makeup, bird's-nest hair and all. She even had her shoes on her feet still.

"Molly!" No response. "Molly? Molly, come on. Molls. Molly Charlotte Hooper. Molly Charlotte Holmes." Nothing. Sherlock sighed and started pacing. He considered picking her up and carrying her to the sofa, but with his luck she'd wake up and discover she had just enough energy to continue the disagreement. He could sleep on the floor, which was covered in plush carpeting. That would be sure to give him a crick in the neck and sore limbs, however, which would ruin his entire day. There was only one option left. He stared at the tiny sofa, sighed once more, and went over to curl up on it.

THUMP.

Sherlock groaned and cracked an eyelid. He'd fallen off the sofa and was sprawled out on the floor by it. His watch informed him that he'd only been asleep for five minutes. He glanced over at the bed, where Molly was still dead to the world despite the loud noise he'd made, and was instantly jealous. Suddenly an idea dawned on him. If she was in that deep of a sleep…

Sherlock got to his feet and headed for the other side of the bed. It was a king-size mattress, big enough for both of them to lie on without even touching each other. As long as he got up before her, she would never know. Careful not to disturb her, he slid under the covers and closed his eyes.

* * *

**Shout out to the Batman Building! One of the most memorable structures in Nashville, the AT&T Building has been affectionately called the Batman Building by locals for years. I'm pretty sure the architects regret putting those ear-like spires on now ;)**


	7. Chapter Seven: Origami Swans

Molly was dreaming that she was being crushed under the weight of twenty suitcases at once. When she awoke, the heavy feeling dulled only somewhat, and she realized that Sherlock was lying halfway on top of her, one arm hanging off the bed on the other side of her and his chin resting on top of her head. His deep, rumbling snore put her in mind of a sleeping dragon.

"SHERLOCK!"

"IT WAS THE BUTCHER!" Apparently Sherlock solved crimes in his dreams as well. He pushed himself onto his elbows and ended up eye to eye with a surprised Molly. "Oops."

"What are you doing?" Molly asked shakily. Apart from the shock, he was impeding some of her lung capacity.

"I told you I didn't fit on that couch; I fell off last night. The other half of the bed wasn't occupied," Sherlock said.

"You don't appear to be on the other half of the bed at the moment. And you're heavier than you look."

"My apologies." Sherlock quickly got up. He tried to brush the creases out of his clothes, but it was no use. His collar was sitting at a strange angle, and his hair was sticking out in all directions.

Molly breathed in a great gulp of air and tried not to think of the awkward position they'd slept in for part of the night. She looked at the clock on the bedside table. It was 10am. "We should probably get washed up."

"I concur." Sherlock went to grab fresh attire from his suitcase.

Molly jumped out of bed and hurriedly rooted in her bag for jeans and a T-shirt. She raced him to the door of the bathroom and turned, placing a hand on his chest. "Ever heard of the expression 'ladies first'?" She asked.

"You got the bed, didn't you?"

"Until you decided to flatten me, yes."

"Not my fault; I rolled over in my sleep. I was going to get up before you, but my internal clock failed to wake me. You can blame jet lag."

"Excuses aren't going to change anything."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "We could save time and take a shower together."

Molly almost squeaked. "NO." Sherlock didn't seem at all fazed by what he had just suggested. Knowing him, he was only thinking about saving time, but that didn't mean she was going to agree to it. She retracted her hand and ran into the bathroom before he could come up with any more bright ideas.

The twenty minute wait felt like an hour to Sherlock. His brain was far too active for sleep, and nothing interesting was happening in the news. He resorted to making origami swans, but soon enough all of the notepad paper in the room was gone.

"It's all y—what happened here?" Molly stopped towel-drying her hair and surveyed the flock of white, yellow, and blue paper birds that had taken up residence on nearly every surface. Sherlock was lounging in the armchair, scratching the back of his neck with his violin bow.

"Got bored." He drew a solemn chord from the violin.

"Oi! You can't play that."

"Why not?"

"We're in a hotel. Some people are still sleeping."

"About time they got up." Sherlock proceeded to play another chord. Molly plucked the bow out of his hand.

"Take your shower," she said, using it to gesture towards the bathroom.

Sherlock found it amusing that such a small woman, especially one who had once been painfully timid, had the courage to order him about. Mrs. Hudson had attempted it many a time and failed, but there was something different about Molly. "Yes ma'am," he said, springing up and executing an exaggerated bow.

As soon as Molly heard the bathroom door snap shut behind him, she gathered up the swans and disposed of half of them in the bin. A handful she saved, unable to let them all go. These she lined up on the window sill, as if they were about to take flight, and covered them with the sheer set of curtains. She hoped Sherlock wouldn't notice right away.

* * *

"Is there a particular reason you put my swans in the window, Molly?"

Molly nearly choked on her bite of strawberry. They were downstairs in the hotel's restaurant, eating a late breakfast. Well, Molly was eating breakfast. Sherlock was sitting across from her at the table without an ounce of food in front of him, choosing instead to observe his surroundings and the other diners. The only effort he had made to combat the warm weather outside was to roll up the sleeves of his white shirt to his elbows. It was a wonder he hadn't tried to wear his Belstaff.

"I thought they looked nice there," Molly replied. Curse his gift.

"But you didn't think I would approve."

"Why would you say that?"

"There isn't a cloud in the sky today. You would never leave curtains blocking a source of sunlight unless you were trying to hide something else."

He had her down to a T. "You can throw them away if you want," she said.

Sherlock hesitated before answering. "I don't see much of a point to them, but it's of no consequence if they stay."

Molly pushed her fruit around and didn't say anything else. Secretly she was relieved; she couldn't explain it, but she was quite fond of the colorful little flock.

"I was thinking we should spend today becoming more familiar with the city. My first day at the Cumberland Chronicle is tomorrow, and I'd like to have at least the major roads memorized by then."

"Sounds like a good idea." Molly watched as a group of people wearing cowboy hats and leather boots wandered into the hotel, gazing in awe and waving towards the the architecture. She grinned. "Want to dress like tourists?"

Sherlock followed her gaze, and a repulsed look crossed his face. "That is one disguise I have no desire to adopt."

Just the mental image of Sherlock outfitted in the fashion of a Nashville tourist made laughter bubble up inside Molly, but she did her best to hold it in. She supposed it was hard enough for him to pretend to be in love with her. Regardless, the prospect of sightseeing brightened her spirits.

"It's past 11. We should get moving soon," Sherlock said after glancing at his watch. He looked pointedly at Molly. She sighed and shoveled in the rest of her food.

* * *

**Sorry this chapter is a short one. I've been busy, but I wanted to give you guys something to read in the meantime.**

**FYI, if you ever visit Nashville, NEVER wear the cowboy hat and boots combination. This is the mark of the tourist. Very few locals dress like that; most of us actually wear normal clothes. Well, if you can call the hipster style normal ;)**


	8. Chapter Eight: Sightseeing

**Bit of a delay on this one; sorry guys. I'm going to be visiting my sister in Salt Lake City soon, and I'll be working more over the next several weeks as a result. Them airline tickets ain't cheap!**

**P.S. Please disregard errors. I finished writing this at 3 in the morning and my eyes are currently attempting to cross.**

* * *

Sightseeing with Sherlock wasn't quite what Molly expected it to be. There were very few cabs in the city, and the roads seemed to wander wherever they wished, so they spent a good portion of time in the car. The rest of Broadway held little interest for Sherlock—too many souvenir shops and cowboy memorabilia. He did take a quick look around the Frist Center for the Visual Arts and peered into the windows of the Ryman, however, and insisted on walking up and down the stepped banks of Riverfront Park while a steamboat chugged lazily by on the Cumberland River. Next they visited the Capitol, Metro Courthouse, Nashville Public Library, Schermerhorn Symphony Center, and the neighborhoods all around. Molly trotted along as fast as she could to keep up with Sherlock's long-legged gait, which never slowed no matter where they went. Thankfully she was used to this pace, and the sights distracted her from complaining.

"I just don't understand what sort of idiot would name a coffee shop 'Frothy Monkey'," Sherlock remarked. They'd just left the 12 South neighborhood, where Molly had managed to grab a beverage at said coffee shop before being whisked off to West End. At the present moment they were in Centennial Park, sitting on the cement steps of a towering Parthenon reproduction.

Molly shrugged. "For the umpteenth time, I don't know. But they make a good cuppa." She took a sip of her tea, mildly regretting having gotten a warm drink when it was so sweltering hot outside. Her feet were killing her, and she was glad for the chance to sit down and enjoy the green landscape and dazzling blue sky. A small breeze came along to cool her brow.

"Why is the primate frothy, exactly? Is it rabid? What message are they trying to convey about their product?"

Molly looked at Sherlock. Even though they had traversed nearly every corner of the city, he was still restless, his toes tapping on the cement as if they'd rather be chasing down a criminal. The breeze ruffled his curls, and for once Molly was jealous of the wind. "The man with the beard and round glasses in the corner of the shop looked a bit shifty. What was his story?"

Sherlock's eyebrows lifted. "So you noticed that, did you? The glasses weren't prescription by the way; just part of his hipster disguise. He skipped bail—domestic assault charge—and was on the run. I called the police while you were reading the menu. They intercepted him shortly after we left."

"How do you know it was domestic assault?"

"The tattoo on his bicep was of two hearts with 'David and Karri Forever' written on them. Not a design a man would get just for a girlfriend, no. So he lives with, or rather lived with, Karri, and has for the past ten years judging by the color of it. There were scratches around his wrists, too big to be from an animal, more likely from human fingernails, manicured ones. So David was angry with Karri—maybe she cheated on him, perhaps he just thought she did—and he tried to strangle her. The scratches are from her attempting to pull his hands away. He didn't succeed in killing her, however, or he wouldn't have been let out on bail."

Molly shook her head in disgust. "What a terrible thing, almost murdering the person you claimed to love."

"Yet another example of why love should be avoided altogether. People lose all sense of reason because of that chemical defect."

Molly sighed inwardly. She ventured a small grin. "Just don't try to choke me anytime soon, alright?"

Sherlock glanced at her white neck, imagining finger-shaped bruises. Without warning, the iron door with the padlock slipped into his mind again. He screwed his eyes shut, giving the lock another go, but it wouldn't break open.

"Sherlock?" Molly had grown used to his many different looks of concentration, but this one was especially intense, as if he was trying to hold on to something that was fading away. "You alright?"

"Fine, I'm fine. Just some mind palace…construction issues."

"How can a mind palace have construction issues?"

"Well it is a building, isn't it?" Sherlock stood up. "Shall we be going?" The sentence was barely out of his mouth before he jumped down the steps of the Parthenon and strode across the lawn.

"I don't think I'll ever fully understand you, Mr. Holmes," Molly muttered. She drank the last of her tea, chucked the empty cup in a nearby trashcan, and ran to catch up. She glanced at her watch. "It's suppertime."

"Depends on the time zone and a person's habits, not to mention work schedule."

Molly rolled her eyes. "Let me rephrase, then. _This _person's habit is to eat now, hang the time zone and the work schedule. I'm probably going to be down a dress size after all this walking."

Sherlock surveyed her figure. "I wouldn't count on the dress size, but two pounds, yes."

"Good to know."

"Although you'll probably gain it back from supper."

"Where are we going?"

"Jason's Deli. It's just down the road."

"Sandwiches?"

"Amongst other things."

"Sounds perfect."

At the restaurant, Molly easily tucked away half a sandwich, crisps, and a bowl of soft-serve ice cream. Sherlock didn't order anything.

"You don't have to pay for my food, you know. I do have my own money," Molly told him. Breakfast had been no charge—Sherlock's acquaintance had made sure of that—but he had paid for her tea.

"It's what husbands generally do. Or so I've observed."

"Husbands also generally order food for themselves. You haven't eaten a crumb all day."

"As you are well aware, it interferes with my work."

"And fainting from lack of nourishment won't? Besides, the case doesn't technically begin until you go to work at the Chronicle tomorrow." Molly nudged the other half of her sandwich over to his side of the table. "Here. I don't really want the rest of this anyway."

"Only because you wanted to be able to fit in that bowl of ice cream."

_Of course he bloody knows that._ "Eat the sandwich, Sherlock."

Sherlock would have refused the offer, but he was beginning to feel slightly dizzy. He made quick work of the sandwich half and then went back to people watching. Molly counted it as a triumph.

* * *

By the time Sherlock and Molly returned to the hotel, it was 10:15pm, and Molly was musing over if she'd ever get past being dog tired when a large piece of furniture suddenly reminded her of a very uncomfortable fact. She groaned. "We forgot to ask for a room with two beds."

"Oh I didn't forget; I was just too busy. And Mr. Dubois doesn't text." Sherlock dropped into the armchair, his fingers flying across the keys of his phone as he spoke. "He's asleep by now. Usually turns in around 9. Last night he only stayed up to make sure we got checked in alright."

"So what do you propose we do about the sleeping arrangements?"

"Share the bed again."

"I'd rather not."

"Honestly, Molly, I don't see what the problem is. There's an ample amount of space, and we only need it for sleeping."

"There didn't seem to be quite as much space last night."

"Well if you want to take the sofa this time around, be my guest."

Molly glared at him, but he was too absorbed in his phone to notice. She scanned the room, trying to think of a solution, when an idea popped into her head. She grabbed the pillows off the sofa and laid them in a line right down the center of the bed. Then she gathered every other pillow and throw blanket they wouldn't be using and piled them on top. The cushioned wall was about two feet high.

The flurry of activity caught Sherlock's attention. Amusement glinted in his eyes. "Hmm. Not the sturdiest barrier I've ever seen."

"It'll do." Molly left to wash her face and brush her teeth. When she returned, Sherlock was already on the other half of the bed, snoring softly. "Now just see that you stay there," she said.


	9. Chapter Nine: The Cumberland Chronicle

Sherlock's internal clock woke him at 5am, just as they sky outside was beginning to fade from black to bluish-gray. His first thought was that the pillow he was holding was exceptionally warm and soft. Then he realized it was breathing. His eyes flew open, and a quick look at his surroundings concluded that he had, at some point during the night, completely destroyed the barrier and currently had his arms tucked around Molly.

Sherlock cursed himself in his head. It was a miracle that she wasn't awake yet; the trip overseas and a day packed with intense sightseeing had clearly taken its toll. Slowly Sherlock pulled his left arm out from underneath her and unwound the right one from around her waist. She stirred and inhaled deeply, but to Sherlock's relief she didn't wake up. In a flash he rebuilt the Great Wall of Pillows and Blankets and vacated the bed. He had to be at the Cumberland Chronicle in two hours.

Molly awoke just as Sherlock was looping a red plaid tie around his neck. He was wearing a gray suit that looked like it had seen better days. Pleased to see that the pillow wall was intact and unaware of what had really transpired, Molly stretched and lay there for a moment, watching Sherlock. "I thought you didn't like neckties."

"I don't, but William Holmes does."

"William Holmes?"

"I'll draw too much attention in the office with a name like 'Sherlock'. My first name is common enough; I plan to go by Will."

"I didn't know William was your first name." Molly had briefly seen it on their marriage license, but had been busy with trying to adjust to the situation and completely forgot about it afterward.

"William Sherlock Scott Holmes, if you want to be technical. Fortunately no one has ever called me that." Sherlock tried several times to tie a proper knot, but each failed attempt only frustrated him more.

"Don't you know how to tie a tie? You wore one in John's wedding."

"Of course I do. Or did."

"Did?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth as his knot fell out once more. There was nothing he wanted more than to tear the offensive strip of material off his neck and burn it. "I deleted it to make room for more vital information."

Molly grinned. She swung her feet over the side of the bed. "Here, let me help."

Sherlock spent a good chunk of time staring up at the ceiling with as much boredom as he could muster while Molly worked on his tie. When she was done, she smoothed out the front of his shirt and resisted the urge to kiss him on the nose. Sometimes he could act downright childish, but at the moment she didn't mind.

"Nothing to it," Molly said.

Sherlock turned and examined her handiwork in the mirror. "I reckon it will do."

"Sherlock, remember what we've been working on."

He sighed. "Thank you, Molly."

"Much better." Molly's cheeks turned a faint tinge of pink. She'd caught a whiff of his citrus aftershave and had leaned closer without realizing it. When he turned again, she almost fell over.

"You should be getting ready as well. I'd like you to come on the tour of the Chronicle."

"Okay. Do you want me to play a character type too?"

"Yes, in fact. Scatterbrained bride."

"What an honor."

"I want Oscar Bliss and whoever else is involved in his secret dealings to see you as not worth their time. If they believe you're a bit of an idiot, you won't be considered a threat."

"So I'm an idiot now. Lovely."

"It's just a part in a play, Molly. Being ourselves isn't an expedient option in this case."

"What part are you playing then, Will Holmes?"

Sherlock pulled a pair of thick-lens glasses with tape securing the bridge out of his breast pocket. He put them on and slouched. "Computer nerd. Also very unassuming."

"Well next time I'd like to be the smart one, if you don't mind."

"I shall consider it."

Molly rolled her eyes and headed for the bathroom to get dressed. It was a while before she emerged, wearing a pink shirt, flowery pencil skirt, and heels that she didn't feel one bit comfortable in. "Do I fit the role?" She asked.

Sherlock looked up from his watch. "Yes, except for your expression. You look like you're in pain."

"Have you ever worn three inch heels before?"

"I once went undercover as a Kabuki actor in Japan and wore geta. Not to mention a kimono and white face paint."

"Kabuki? Geta?"

"Classical Japanese dance-drama. Geta are wooden shoes that are a cross between clogs and sandals."

"Believe me, heels are worse."

"Just try to appear vacant, and lovesick whenever you look at me. We're going to be late if we don't leave now."

"I think I've got the 'sick' part down at least," Molly muttered as he ushered her out of their hotel room.

* * *

"Brilliant."

Molly, who had been staring around at the rows and rows of computer-stocked desks, followed Sherlock's gaze. She stopped in her tracks. The man from the plane—who Sherlock had christened 'Paisley'—was chatting with the receptionist. True to his moniker, he was sporting a yellow paisley tie.

"Of course he works here. I observed the possibilities of a link to the Chronicle, but I didn't realize just how close to the mark I was." Sherlock quickly snatched off his glasses and stuffed them in his pocket. "No use in attempting that disguise. I wasn't wearing them on the plane."

"Fantastic." Molly wanted nothing more than to kick off her heels as well.

Sherlock strode up to Paisley and extended a hand. "Hello there. I'm Will Holmes, the new marriage advice columnist."

Paisley surveyed him with palpable disappointment. "Victor Bliss, News director/editor. I'm supposed to show you around."

"Bliss? Any relation to Oscar Bliss?"

"Yes, he's my father." Victor eyes slid to Molly, and his dour expression brightened somewhat. "I'm pleased to finally make your acquaintance, Miss…"

"_Mrs._ Molly Holmes." Molly accepted his lingering handshake reluctantly.

"We're just recently married," Sherlock said pointedly. Molly circled her arm through his and attempted a brainless giggle.

"Congratulations. Now if you would please come with me, we can get this tour over wi—I mean, started."

Victor moved so quickly that they covered every room on all four floors of the Chronicle in less than an hour. Sherlock studied everything, from the water fountains in the hallways to the projector in the meeting room, and listened attentively to their guide's vague descriptions. Molly, on the other hand, was too preoccupied the aching of her feet. It was a relief for her when the tour finally ended at Sherlock's workspace, which was stuffed in a corner on the second floor and very nondescript.

"The deadline for your first article is next Monday. I suggest you get started," Victor said. He flashed one of his rare grins at Molly and then left as quickly as possible.

"Friendly chap," Molly said with a shake of her head.

"He still fancies you. I, on the other hand, am the equivalent of an annoying gnat to him."

"You don't seem too fond of him either."

"He's an only child, and apparently the apple of Daddy's eye. Oscar Bliss handed that job to him as soon as he graduated college. His marks were abysmally low, by the way, but Oscar paid off several of his professors."

"For once I don't really want to hear how you know all that," Molly said. "I just want to get out of these shoes."

"After you do, I need you to check out Bliss Outfitters. It's a clothing store in the Gulch and one of Oscar's many business ventures. According to their website, they donate more than half of their proceeds to charity."

"And you want me to find out if it's really going to charity."

"Precisely." Sherlock raised his voice and adopted a sappy tone. "Don't forget to pick me up at five, honey," he said, pulling Molly in for a goodbye kiss. Not expecting it, Molly squeaked, but she managed to remember the charade they were putting on in time to turn it into another giggle. When he released her, a few employees were watching them with amusement.

"Bye, Willie!" Despite the act, Molly was a little dazed as she walked away. Her painful footwear was the last thing on her mind during her drive back to the hotel.


	10. Chapter Ten: Bliss Outfitters

**Once again I edited this very late, so please excuse any errors. I wanted to get it to you guys as soon as possible :)**

* * *

When Molly left the hotel shortly after lunch, she was more comfortably garbed in jeans and a gray tank top and had her hair pulled back into her signature ponytail. Bliss Outfitters was easy enough to locate; it was a sprawling building built from reclaimed materials and bore its enormous iron-wrought sign with pride. Molly parked the car and went in.

"Welcome to Bliss Outfitters!" An employee said cheerfully from where she was straightening a pile of folded shirts. Arrayed in high-waisted shorts, a white V-neck, and colorful Toms, she was an accurate reflection of the store. "Can I help you?"

"Just looking," Molly said. She headed over to the nearest clothes rack and began inspecting a dress with feigned interest. The price tag informed her that it could be hers for $124.95. She quickly passed it by.

Bliss Outfitters was staffed by people dressed similarly to Molly's greeter, all with friendly smiles and helpful attitudes. No one looked even remotely like a black market dealer. But if there was one thing Molly had learned about people after spending so much time with Sherlock, it was that they were seldom what they seemed. While browsing, she kept an eye out for anything out of the ordinary.

There were six employees on the floor, and a good number of customers who didn't seem to mind the high price tags that surrounded them. At one point a manager came out of the back to help a cashier fix a computer issue, but she disappeared once more as soon as it was resolved. After twenty-five minutes, Molly was about to leave when a middle-aged man entered the store with a package tucked under his arm. At first he looked like just another hipster, but he kept glancing around as if he was afraid someone might be watching him. His eyes passed right over Molly. This wasn't unusual; people often overlooked her, and it proved to be her greatest advantage.

Molly grabbed a British flag-emblazoned T-shirt from the sales rack and headed for the counter without bothering to try it on. If she going to get close enough to see and hear what the package-carrying man was up to, the counter was the closest spot. She also figured that the employees would soon realize how long she'd been in the store without picking up even one item of clothing, and the shirt was marked down from 50 dollars to 15.

As the cashier was ringing Molly up, the manager who had fixed the computer malfunction came out to meet the man with the box. She was tall and thin, with high cheekbones, sharp blue eyes, and long, wavy blond hair. Her expensive turquoise dress fit her like a glove, and Molly was sure she must have been a model at some point in her life.

"Got another delivery for ya, Danielle," said the man.

Danielle jerked her head towards the doorway behind her, and he quickly shuffled into the back room. Her eyes raked over everyone in hearing distance, and Molly pretended to be more interested in the recyclable shopping bag that the cashier was handing her. Satisfied, she turned and followed the man.

Molly decided to go out on a limb. "Was that your manager? She looks familiar."

The cashier—a friendly Asian-American teenager who had complimented her accent and introduced himself as Ralph—glanced at the swinging door. "Yeah, that's Danielle Bliss. She's married to Victor Bliss, whose dad owns this place. Actually, he owns a lot of places. You might have seen her on magazine covers a few years ago; she used to be a swimsuit model."

Molly was surprised to hear that Victor was married. Apparently he had a habit of forgetting to wear his ring, especially while flirting with women on airplanes. She doubted Danielle cared as much for him as for his money; according to Sherlock, the Blisses were the third richest family in the States.

"That must be where I recognized her from. Thank you so much, Ralph," Molly said with a smile.

"You're very welcome, Ms. Molly. Have a nice day!"

* * *

"Victor Bliss is married!"

The passenger's side door of the Ford had barely shut behind Sherlock before Molly let the news she'd been containing all day burst out of her. He regarded her with a mild expression.

"Yes, I'm aware of that. On the plane I observed he had a tan line from a wedding ring, which he removes every time he sees you. The online gossip bloggers say he has a fetish for foreign women, so I suppose he heard your accent and was immediately smitten." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"You could have told me that."

"I didn't think it was important."

Molly sighed and started driving back to the hotel. "So you probably already know she manages Bliss Outfitters."

"Naturally. Did anything happen while you were there, excluding your purchase of that overpriced piece of material in the backseat?"

Molly pursed her lips. He always had to ruin her fun. "Oh, nothing much. Just a shady-looking man coming in and delivering a package to Mrs. Bliss."

Sherlock looked at her, instantly alert. She felt a sense of satisfaction that she knew about something that he didn't. "What did he look like? And what sort of package?"

"Average height and weight, brown hair, middle-aged, dressed like a hipster. Not someone you—well, a normal person—would give a second glance. The package was medium-sized, wrapped in brown paper, and carried under his arm. He told her he had another delivery for her and called her by her first name only. She motioned for him to go in the back room and followed him. I wasn't able to see what happened after that, and he never came out while I was there. I had to leave eventually so no one would become curious as to why I was lingering."

"Hmm. Transactions like this must go on all the time, considering how relaxed he was in addressing her. It was all business for her, however. Perhaps the package held an object intended to be sold on the black market, and Danielle Bliss is the checkpoint. Can you investigate further?"

"Maybe. I think I made a friend there; an employee named Ralph."

"Another one of your American beaus?"

"Shut it. He's around seventeen or eighteen. He was more than happy to volunteer information about his boss when I asked who she was."

"Excellent. See if you can discover more from him the next time you go."

"What about you? Did you learn anything new at the Cumberland Chronicle?"

"Not particularly. I didn't see Victor the rest of the day, and Oscar is even more reclusive. From the stories shared around the water cooler, it appears that he leaves most of the operations to his son and only shows his face at the occasional meeting. Also, the man who occupies the desk nearest mine has acute OCD. I moved his pen around whenever he went to use the toilet or get a drink of water, and he had a panic attack every time he came back. I must say it relieved the dullness considerably."

Molly sighed inwardly, pitying the unsuspecting coworker. She and Sherlock surrendered their car over to Union Station's valet and walked inside. "Did you get any work done on the article you're supposed to be writing?"

"I researched the divorce rate in America over the past ten years."

"And?"

"Well, that was pretty much it."

"Sherlock!"

"Don't worry, Molly. I have plenty of time to complete it. Right now, however, I need to search for Danielle's police records and previous work history. You can order supper for yourself in the meantime."

Molly watched the detective's wiry form as he ascended the stairs before she headed in the direction of the hotel's restaurant. It was a wonder he didn't wither away from starvation whenever he was on a case; it was like the thrill of the game weighed his stomach down and made him forget that he was still human. Between this and his history of substance abuse, it was even more of a wonder he was alive at all. Of course, a lot of it was owed to the combined efforts of John and Molly. They had always been there to talk him into eating a meal, or administering a good slap on the cheek when he was falling back into old habits. Now the responsibility was entirely on Molly's shoulders. For some reason, she didn't mind the burden too much.


	11. Chapter Eleven: Advice for the Adviser

**Sorry for the delay; I just got back from Salt Lake City Saturday night. Enjoy!**

* * *

First thing in the morning, Sherlock went to see Mr. Dubois about changing rooms. Once again he'd woken up on Molly's side of the bed, and once again he'd had to unravel himself without waking her up. He decided it was because the room grew colder in the middle of the night, and his subconscious naturally sought out the warmest object available. Regardless, Molly would surely scold him harshly if she caught him at it again, and he needed her attention to be focused on infiltrating Bliss Outfitters.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, but the hotel's mighty booked up this month. There isn't a room with two beds in it to spare," Mr. Dubois said. His wrinkled face was sincerely apologetic.

"Are you positive?"

"Absolutely. But I can let you know if a cancellation arises. It happens from time to time."

Sherlock groaned inwardly. "If it does happen, please inform me as soon as possible." With that he marched back upstairs.

Mr. Dubois chuckled quietly. "Crazy Brits. Imagine being afraid to sleep in the same bed with your wife," he said to himself before returning to his work.

* * *

"So I've just been down to speak to Mr. Dubois about the bed situation."

Molly turned from the mirror, where she had been buttoning her coffee-colored blouse. Sherlock noted that it matched her eyes exactly and that a flush rose in her cheeks at the realization that he could have easily walked in while she was changing clothes. Blushing didn't look half-bad on her; he mused that it made her skin look less like death. "What did he say?" She asked.

"All the twin-bed rooms are booked, unfortunately. But he will contact me immediately if someone cancels their reservation."

"Well that's rubbish." Molly started pulling her hair back in a ponytail.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Put your hair up. It makes your face too angular."

Molly raised an eyebrow. "Since when did you care?"

"I don't, but Ralph needs to see you at your best."

Molly rolled her eyes. "He's just a kid, Sherlock."

"Appearance makes an impression on anyone." Sherlock sighed as he watched her try to flatten her hair out around her face. "Stop it; you're only making it worse. Here." He grabbed the brush and drew it through her brown locks, removing knots and parting it a little further to the right. He was mildly surprised to find that it wasn't quite as mousy as he'd originally thought; up close, thin streaks of natural gold highlights could be seen. It was also soft to the touch, and became glossier the more he ran the brush through.

Molly was too stunned to speak or move away. Instead she watched as her hair transformed into something that was actually presentable. It seemed to like his capable fingers more than hers. Traitor.

"Ah, that's better. You don't look like you got caught in a violent gale now."

There was the Sherlock Molly knew and…well, tolerated. "Victor Bliss doesn't seem to mind."

Sherlock's face darkened. "Victor Bliss is an imbecile. He's enamored merely by your nationality, remember?"

Molly shrugged, satisfied that she had struck a chord. The consulting detective and the newspaper tycoon's son were far from being on good terms with each other.

Sherlock tossed aside the brush. "We should be going now. I'm sure Sir Silver Spoon Boy would love to report my lateness to his daddy, and I'd rather not give him that opportunity."

Molly stepped into her flats and led the way into the hall. "Did you get started on that article last night?"

"Article? Oh, that. No, but I'll get around to it when I have time."

Molly laughed. "If this case isn't solved by next Monday, you never will have time, knowing you. I'll help you with it tonight."

"It would be simpler if you just wrote it for me."

"No way. You'll be doing the writing. I'm just doing the advising."

"Have I told you how pretty you are with your hair down?"

"You must be desperate if you're trying that old trick again. You're not getting out of this one, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock sulked all the way to the Cumberland Chronicle.

* * *

Molly sat in the parking lot of Bliss Outfitters, wondering if it was too soon to return after having been there the day before. She already knew Ralph was working; Sherlock had bypassed his privacy settings on his Facebook page and discovered a status update that mentioned he'd be clocking in at 9am. Molly had been against this breech at first, but it was the fastest way to get information, so she eventually conceded. She now knew that Ralph's last name was Chan, he was seventeen, and he wanted to major in—ironically—criminal investigation after he graduated high school. Sherlock had stated that he would make an ideal sidekick and was instantly chided for it.

At long last, Molly pulled the key out of the ignition and got out of the car. It was drizzling gently outside, and she felt a small twinge of homesickness, but it was pleasant to feel the cool drops on her skin. She left her umbrella behind and went inside.

"Mrs. Holmes! Did you forget something?" Ralph was folding shirts near the front of the store.

"Oh no, I just wanted to ask for a job application," Molly responded. She'd come up with the idea in the car. Sherlock had secured a work visa for her at the same time as his—another favor called in—and she figured it would be much easier to keep Bliss Outfitters under surveillance if she was employed there.

Ralph's face lit up. "Sure thing! Just give me a sec." He headed to the back, returning with a sheet of paper. He handed it to Molly. "You came in at a good time. Someone quit last week and Danielle's been looking for a replacement. It'd be cool if we got to work together."

"Thank you! Mind if I fill it out here?" Molly asked.

"No prob. Here, you can use my pen." Ralph fished a ballpoint pen out of his pocket. Molly took it and used the end of the counter as a hard surface. When she was finished, she handed the application and the pen back to Ralph.

"Danielle will be in tomorrow. If she likes what she sees, she'll call you for an interview sometime after 2pm. I'll put in a good word for ya."

"Thanks again, Ralph. You've been very helpful." Molly smiled and left the store, hoping Danielle wasn't overly picky.

* * *

"Hmm. Not a bad idea. Quite good, actually," Sherlock said that night when Molly told him about putting the application in.

"I reckoned it was better than pretending to shop there every day. I can keep a closer eye on Danielle this way. If she hires me, that is." Molly bit her lip. "What if Victor comes in? Or if she finds out you work for her father-in-law and draws her own conclusions?"

"Victor has never set foot in Bliss Outfitters. He and his wife barely talk; they're too busy cheating on each other. I highly doubt your identity will come to light." Sherlock exhaled sharply and deleted the entire paragraph he'd just finished typing on his laptop.

"Is that the advice column article?" Molly asked.

"No, it's a recipe for figgy pudding. Of course it's the dratted article! What's left of it, anyway. Daftest subject I've ever attempted to write on."

Molly peered over his shoulder. There was only one word typed: Marriage. She shook her head in disbelief, the fine hairs in her ponytail tickling his neck. He would have brushed them away, but the shampoo she used smelled like some sort of Indian spice, and he was rather fond of it. Not that he planned to divulge that fact, however.

"Were you given a topic?" Molly asked.

"Yes, I'm supposed to explain why infidelity happens and how to prevent it. I wonder if ole Oscar Bliss is trying to tell his son something. The answer that appeals to me is 'don't get married to begin with', but there's a chance that's not what they're looking for."

"What a suprise." Molly's eyebrows knit together in deep thought. "Maybe write something to the effect of 'the grass is always greener on the other side'? I think people quickly forget that they're supposed to be contributing to the relationship, not just gaining from it, and end up searching for fulfillment through alternate channels."

"Or the faithful party could simply shoot the unfaithful party and be done with the business altogether. In Victor and Danielle's case, it would have to be a double killing."

"Sherlock!"

"I'm merely presenting a viable option."

Molly glared at him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine, we'll go with yours. Sugar-coated though it may be." He typed a new paragraph, which was thankfully void of murder.

"You should add a bit about remembering why you fell in love with that person in the first place, and renewing that emotion."

Sherlock wanted to gag, but he wrote this down too. The sooner they finished, the better.

"Compare it to a fire that needs constant rekindling. They'll like that."

"Because it's entirely plausible that the same fire could be burning for decades on end."

"It's a metaphor."

"Everything in love is a metaphor. For example, why exactly do people call each other 'honey'? Or 'baby'? What sense does it make to refer to your lover as sickeningly-sweet flower nectar or a slobbering adolescent human?"

"It's just how they show their affection."

"Completely pointless."

"Tell me, Sherlock, is there a chance you're actually a robot?"

"No, robots can glitch. I do not."

"I don't know why I even try." Molly started to walk away, but Sherlock grabbed her wrist.

"I need a hundred more words."

"Well then I suggest your non-glitching brain should start assembling them. I've said my share."

"Perhaps…I could say something about the importance of apologies?"

"Is that your indirect way of apologizing?"

"Possibly."

"Your delivery needs work, but it's a start. Go ahead and address that in the last paragraph."

Sherlock pulled together a passable sentence on forgiveness being a major building block in a relationship—most likely something he'd read in a book—and then scanned for typos and grammatical errors. Once he was done, he saved it online so he could print it from his work computer the next day. He put his hands behind his head and stretched. His nostrils flared as he caught a stronger whiff of Molly's shampoo, and he realized she was brushing her hair out. As he watched her, the notorious indestructible door in his mind palace made a reappearance. His hands flew to his temples, as if he hoped to physically grab ahold of it.

"Headache?" Molly stopped brushing her hair. Her face flooded with concern.

"If only it was as trivial as that." The door faded away again, and Sherlock sighed. He glanced at his watch. "It's past midnight. I'm going to turn in."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"That won't be necessary. Good night, Molly." Sherlock dropped onto his side of the bed, flipping over so that his back was to her.

Molly didn't pursue the subject. "Night," she said, turning off the light.


	12. Chapter Twelve: Contraband

"So. You worked at a hospital before coming over here? And now you're seeking employment at a clothing store?" Danielle Bliss looked at Molly from across the table, her perfectly-penciled eyebrows arching upward.

Molly attempted a sheepish expression. She really didn't need to blow this interview. "To be honest, my husband and I were wanting to settle down here in America and…raise a family, but we're having a hard time making ends meet. I'd rather not go back into pathology and then have…kids, you know?" Oh, if only St. Bart's knew what she was spending her combined vacation days on. Even picturing Sherlock as a father almost made her laugh aloud.

"Hmm." According to the internet, Victor and Danielle didn't have any children, and according to local gossip, they didn't particularly want them. Danielle wrote a note in small print on Molly's application. "Well your availability is good. Better than anyone who's applied in the past three weeks. And Ralph speaks very highly of you." She hesitated, tapping out a beat on the table with her pencil as if it helped her think. She sighed. "Can you start tomorrow morning?"

Molly quickly hid her surprise. They must be desperate. "Of course! What time?"

"9am. We open at 10, so that will give you plenty of time to fill out the paperwork. Make sure you bring your work visa and some identification."

"Thank you, Mrs. Bliss! I'm looking forward to it." Molly stood and shook her hand. Danielle smiled tautly, as if it pained her to make any sort of friendly expression, and Molly took this as her cue to leave. On her way out, Ralph looked at her questioningly. She gave him a thumbs up, and he grinned from ear to ear.

* * *

Sherlock took his time printing out his article for the paper. Once it was submitted, he was free to go home, and then he wouldn't be able to spy on Victor Bliss. He pretended to forget where the copier room was and wandered the halls, keeping his eyes peeled for suspicious activity. He ended up in front of the glossy wooden door that led to Oscar Bliss's stately office. In a moment of sheer luck, Oscar Bliss himself stepped outside of it. He was a short, portly man, with a bald head and jowls akin to a bulldog's. He was dressed in an expensive black suit and pale-yellow tie. His sharp hazel eyes—the only trait he shared with his son—remained focused on an iPhone as he strode down the hallway. All of the newspaper bigwigs were currently in a meeting, which appeared to be important enough to include Bliss Sr.

_It__'__s Christmas!_ Sherlock thought. With a spring in his step, he headed for slightly-ajar office door and slipped through it, making sure to crack it behind him. The office contained a great mahogany desk, padded swivel chair, top-of-the-line Mac desktop computer, minibar, and rows of filing cabinets. Sherlock walked right past the filing cabinets and focused his attention on the desk. If Oscar Bliss was going to keep records of illegal business dealings, it wasn't going to be somewhere quite so obvious. He pulled out all of the drawers, rifling through their contents. The last drawer was a bit of a disappointment, as there was nothing in it. Sherlock was about to close it, but then he noticed fine scrapes along the sides of the drawer, as if something almost the same size as it had been lifted out quickly. He ran his fingers around the edges of the bottom, and they caught on a minuscule hole on the edge of the wood. Slipping a finger through it, he pulled up, and the false bottom of the drawer popped into a vertical position.

Sherlock grinned. Inside was a stack of documents, intended for Oscar's eyes only. He sifted through them, quickly reading them, and his smile widened. Each one was the copy of an order form for some priceless object, many of which he knew didn't belong in the hands of the public. The newspaper president's large cursive signature ornamented the bottom of every form. Sherlock took several pictures of the documents with his phone before packing the evidence back into its hiding place. He slipped out of the office and blended in with the crowd going out to lunch.

* * *

Molly walked into Bliss Outfitters ten minutes early, tugging at her pastel-pink dress. Compared to what she usually wore, it was far from comfortable, but the role she was playing—and her new job—demanded a different look. Sherlock had helped her pick out her wardrobe that morning, steering her away from her selection of fuzzy and shapeless articles of clothing.

"Oh no, you're not wearing that," he'd said when she'd come out of the bathroom in a light polka-dotted cardigan, boyfriend-cut jean capris, and ballet-flat Crocs.

"What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing, unless your goal in life is to emulate a frumpy grandmother." Sherlock returned to whatever he was researching on the computer. "Check the left side of the closet. I ordered a few things for you online and had them shipped overnight."

Molly's search revealed a row of clothing she wouldn't have given a second glance in a clothing store. There were far too many skirts.

"I'd suggest the first dress in the row. And the…what are they called…nude wedges."

Molly hadn't bothered to argue; there wasn't much of a point when Sherlock was involved. She'd changed quickly, looking forward to slipping into sweatpants and a T-shirt when she got back to the hotel that night.

"Oh. You're early." This didn't seem to either impress or offend Danielle Bliss. She led Molly into the back room, her sky-high stilettos clicking on the concrete floor, and gestured to a stack of papers sitting on the desk. "Fill out those while I scan your ID and work permit into the computer."

Once all the paperwork was finished and Molly was officially logged into the computer system, Danielle showed her how to run the register and keep the floor stocked. Before she knew it, it was opening time, and Danielle had left her to fend for herself on the floor.

"Hey there, Molly! All ready for your first day?" Ralph couldn't have walked through the door a second sooner.

Molly smiled. "Do you work every day, Ralph?"

"Only weekends. Now that school's started back, I'll be working evenings, but if you're scheduled till five we'll still be working two hours together." Ralph clocked in on the register's computer screen. "So did Danielle show you everything?"

"A bit. Barely."

Ralph sighed. "Typical Danielle. Here, let me give you some more in-depth training."

By the time Ralph was done, Molly had a much better handle on being a retail employee. She spent most of the day keeping the store neat and helping customers in the dressing room, all the while keeping an eye on Danielle's activity. The woman spent a lot of time scrolling through Facebook on the computer in the back, content to let her employees do all the work for her.

"Excuse me, do you know where I might find Danielle Bliss?"

Molly stopped pricing a sweater and looked up. An African-American man holding a rectangular package was standing in front of her. _Finally,_ she thought. "I can sign for it if you like."

"No, it's not that kind of—I mean, I have to deliver it directly to Mrs. Bliss."

_Drat._ "I'll take you to her then."

Molly led the man into the back, where Danielle was absorbed in social media.

"Someone to see you, ma'am," Molly said.

Danielle jumped and shut down the web page. She turned around. "Oh, must be the new…business cards. Molly, go dust something."

"Yes ma'am." Molly turned the corner, pushed on the swinging door so it sounded like she had gone through it, and then crept back to a spot where she'd be close enough to hear but still hidden by the wall.

"Business cards?" The man said.

"I had to come up with something. I doubt she suspected anything, though. She's pretty ditzy."

Molly felt a stir of resentment, but then she remembered that 'ditzy' was exactly what she was going for. If Danielle was dismissing her so easily, she must be playing her part well enough. She pulled out her phone and hit the record button.

"Well here's the first of your shipment. I have nine other boxes, but I'll have to bring them in slowly."

"That's fine. What is it this time?"

There was a pause, as if the man was looking around him. "Mexican black tar. Pure."

Molly had to clasp a hand over her mouth to keep herself from gasping. Oscar Bliss wasn't just selling priceless artifacts on his black market; he was trafficking drugs as well. Apparently this week's special was heroin.

"I'll let Victor know. Just leave it in the usual spot."

There was a sound of a box being placed on the floor, and Molly knew it was time to move. She stopped the recording, tucked the phone safely in her pocket, and slipped out of the back room.

"Another delivery?" Ralph asked from the cash register.

"Er, yeah." Molly slowed her breathing down and tried to look as if nothing had happened.

"I'm starting to wonder where all those go. They're certainly not for the store. When I asked Danielle, she said they're for the Cumberland Chronicle, but sometimes I wonder if they're—" Ralph dropped his voice for emphasis—"contraband." He laughed.

_If only you knew, Ralph. _"Maybe!" Molly said instead. She glanced at the clock, hoping the next two hours would fly by quickly so she could deliver her information to Sherlock.


End file.
